Chapter 6 under bemble hill
under bemble hill
1
With light waves around Mariotik
All that the saints said, swore,
The witches of Atreus do know,
After speaking out, the chickens were made to crow.
By those knights, women - shapes and colors
All proved they were superhuman, swear,
Pale, slender-faced companion,
For ever, ever full of living air,
Won the wholeness of their passion;
Now they gallop through the winter dawn,
Ben Bulben Hill was the view behind them.
These are the gist of what they want to say.
2
Many times, one dies, one lives
In their two afterlife,
The afterlife of the nation, the afterlife of the soul,
Old Ireland knew all this.
Whether man dies in his bed,
Or it was a gunshot that killed him,
temporary separation from loved ones
It's the worst thing anyone can fear.
Though the gravediggers' labor is long,
Their shovels are sharp and their muscles are strong,
they're just the ones who buried them
Re-propelled into the human mind.
3
You've heard Mitchell's voice in prayer:
"Lord, bring war to our time!"
You know, when all is said and done,
And one man is fighting furiously,
What fell from the blinded eyes,
He completed his incomplete thinking.
So I stood still for a while,
Laughing loudly, my heart is peaceful.
Even the brightest minds achieve their mission,
Before job recognition and partner selection,
And all because of some kind of violence,
I always feel so apprehensive.
4
Poets and sculptors, do your work,
Don't let the fashionable painter just hide
as his great ancestors did,
Take the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradle properly.
Measure begins our strength,
—A typical Egyptian thinks of shape,
A shape made by mild Phidias.
On the roof of the Sistine Chapel,
Michelangelo left proof;
There, just a half-awake Adam
to make women who walk the earth terrified,
At last her heart was filled with passion,
prove that there is a predetermined purpose,
Before the thought of the secret work,
Human perfection is actually mundane.
Italian masters of the fifteenth century,
When designing backgrounds for gods and saints,
Always painted gardens where the soul is at peace,
everything people see,
Flowers, Fang leather.And the cloudless sky,
Much like a sleeper who wakes up and is dreaming again,
The shapes that I saw seemed to be like this
The shape disappears and only the bed remains
and the bedstead, still claiming
The gates of heaven are opened.
oh spin
A bigger dream has faded,
Calvert and Wilson, Black and Crowder,
A rest is prepared for those who believe in God,
Palmer's words, but after that,
Our minds are filled with confusion and sorrow.
5
Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing of all that is well done,
despise the kind that is head to toe
have lost the mystery of appearance,
Their memoryless heads and hearts—
A lowly product on a lowly bed.
sing the peasants, and then
The country gentleman galloping,
Holy of the monks, imitate
Those who drink bitter beer laugh wildly;
Sing of those merry lords and ladies,
it was during seven heroic centuries
the most fundamental essence of formation;
Let your mind think of other days,
so.we will still be able to
Become the Unconquerable Irish.
6
Beneath bare Ben Bulben,
Yeats lies in the middle of Tramcliffe graveyard.
An ancestor was rector there,
Many years ago, a church was nearby,
Beside the road, is an ancient cross,
No marbles, no formulas;
On limestone quarried nearby,
It was inscribed according to his instructions:
to life, to death
cast a cold look
Onward, knight!